A Parade of RiversCascade across the forest floorCutting lines in the verdant groundEver deeperDripping, splashing, churning wavesThey frolic amongst the treesExpertly avoiding obstacles while creating new onesThey yearn for more spaceBut embark on their quest aloneA drip, a dropA tiny bubble of waterIts own worldBursts upon the sceneComing from nowhereGoing everywhereLife has begunTravel is slowIt must sneak from A to BSilently, haltinglyIt makes its wayGreeting more and more old friends along the pathSoon there’s an armyEvery revolution starts smallA thimble, a glass, a bucketBigger, better thingsThe trickle has grownA stream to a creekBlink and there’s a riverRivers have a systemOrder worth admiringThey work together while apartAlone in location, they share one mindThis is telecommuting at its finestThey tread and trudgeUnstoppable til they meetAnd then their power’s greaterRushing to the seaThey’ll meet together in a grand reunionNothing can touch themNothing can slow themThese newborn, ancient dropsThe sea is their religionAnd their pilgrimage never ends

Coming Rains

Herethe world threatens impotently to rainI urge itcasting aspersions and whispering sweet encouragementsbut neither seems to workThe wind that comes with the rainless storm knocks crumpled hulls of leaves from their perchesThey tremblefor only a momentbefore disconnecting and drifting down toward a more final destinationThunder rumbles quietly but almost constantlyas the dry rainstorm raises more and more hopeIt is only June and the earth isscorchedandcrackingEach once-green leafso recently renewed by the springstruggles endlessly to surviveAs with anythingit is the very youngand the very oldwho die firstSaplings dry uptheir young root systems unable to provide for themThe blights that battle the old gain footing and traction.

Lightning cracks nearbyrending the sky briefly, but violently, in twoThere is the sound of shattering glassthen the impossibly low rumble that travels outward ripples on a pondAnother bolt follows its brother’s pathAnd my hopesagainst my better judgmentrise furtherBut in the silence that follows the second, I hear birds tittering nearbyThey appreciate the showmanship but see right through it,knowing something I obviously cannot.

The sky is white thenPurely solike a backlit sheet of paperI can make out individual leaves against it as though set out on an examining plate.

The water that eventually comesis aggressive in its ineffectivenessLarge drops sent down with a vengeance, perhaps to spite meBut they arefew and far betweenand can leave no lasting impressionEven where the shadows of their spent lives are visible on pavementthere are so few spots as to suggest they may just be permanent stains.

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​Ann Schlotzhauer is in her final year at the University of Tulsa, studying English, Spanish, and Psychology. She feels compelled to create and fiction and poetry are her preferred methods.